The Misbegotten Affair
by Nyala Necheyev
Summary: UNCLE destroys one of THRUSH's top secret bases to find a young boy who claims to be Illya Kuryakin. What is going on here? And are there more like him out there?
1. Act I: Lost and Found

A small, straw-haired boy walked through the automatic steel doors of a top-secret base, THRUSH035, to enter the control room, where his teacher, Special Agent Angelique LeVoux, and director Chekov were arguing in urgent, tense voices. The eleven-year-old paused and looked from one to the other with uncertain blue eyes as they continued to bicker, unaware of his presence.

"We can't stay here," Angelique was saying, "When U.N.C.L.E. catches wind of what we're doing here, it will mean the end of the project."

"It's impossible to be detected, LeVoux," Chekov insisted, "They'll walk right over it and never know that they did."

Angelique let out a growl of frustration, her usually well-styled blonde hair now lying untended down her back, as though the green-eyed French woman had just woken up and hadn't had time to fix it yet.

"You don't know the man who's conducting the search," she told the director firmly, "You haven't the slightest idea –"

"Oh, I'm sure you have more of an idea," Chekov interrupted dryly, an amused smirk crossing his pale, narrow face, "I've never been in bed with the man."

At this, Angelique spluttered angrily. It had only been recently discovered that she had had an affair with an agent from the U.N.C.L.E., a fact that had spread faster than wildfire, with much disapproval and head-shaking. The little boy could help but snicker at his teacher's reaction.

The blonde looked down at her pupil in brief alarm, then gave a weary sigh and shook her head at him.

"That's no talk to use in front of a small boy," she told Chekov, who raised an eyebrow and looked down at the intruder in mild surprise.

The boy simply shrugged in reply. "It's okay," he told them, "I know what you're talking about."

"He knows what were talking about," Chekov parroted to Angelique, "Besides, he'll remember plenty of that sort of thing when his mind develops further. I'm quite sure the _urijinul_ had had some hands-on experience by the time we got the DNA sample."

The little boy frowned in slight confusion. Up until now, all three of them had been speaking Russian, the only language the boy understood. So what was this 'urijinal', and what language was it? Or was it just a made-up word? What did it mean?

Angelique merely rolled her eyes at the director and turned towards her student.

"Illya, go do your algebra."

"But, Angelique!" Illya protested, "I want to know what's going on! What did Chekov mean, 'U.N.C.L.E.'s going to walk right over us'?"

"Algebra," Angelique repeated firmly, "Now."

* * *

A few hours later, Angelique was trying to instruct the Russian boy in advanced mathematics, and Illya was fighting her tooth and nail.

"3y[45(3x)] squared is 143x!"

"That's not what the textbook says," Angelique replied coldly, "Are you saying that the textbook is wrong?"

After a moment's hesitation, Illya responded, "YES!"

"So," Angelique answered him, "You're saying that the person who designed this curriculum, along with all the mathematical geniuses in the world, are all wrong, except for the great Illya Kuryakin?"

Again, "Yes!"

"Well, Illya," Angelique said, slamming the textbook onto the table in the small study room and leaning forward to look her rebellious student in the eye, "That is the most outrageous, corniest bullsh –"

A sudden alarm cut her off, whooping out its blazing red warning. There was a foothold situation somewhere in the base! Textbook and lessons forgotten, the young teacher grabbed her small charge by the wrist and hurried to the door, opening it, and checked both right and left before speeding on down the corridor, a very startled Illya in tow.

"What is it?" he asked in Russian.

The answer Angelique gave him was summed up into one five-letter abbreviation.

"U.N.C.L.E."

Illya felt a wash of terror at her answer. He had heard only too much about the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement – enough to where their agents haunted his worst nightmares and had always been the boy's greatest fear.

Angelique continued to guide Illya through the corridors and various crowds, some panicked, all of them running for the nearest exit. Illya couldn't help but feel disappointed at this lack of courage from T.H.R.U.S.H.; in all of his daydreams in which he fought and won against the U.N.C.L.E., he had always pictured T.H.R.U.S.H. fighting beside him, not running for the nearest hiding spot like so many cockroaches when someone flicked on the light switch.

Finally the two runners reached a small escape tunnel that lead up to the Earth's surface. Quickly opening the door, Angelique let go of Illya and gestured for him to go first. Hesitating, Illya opened his mouth to argue, but Angelique suddenly convulsed once, then fell to the floor. Someone had shot her!

The frightened boy turned quickly to see two American snipers standing at the head of the corridor, one of them holding an M-16 pointed toward the place where Angelique had been. Escape tunnel forgotten, Illya gave his dead teacher one last glance, then turned and sped down a tunnel headed East at a speed that would have done the Roadrunner proud.

* * *

"A little boy?" Napoleon Solo asked in confusion, adjusting the band width on the radio in an attempt to get a clearer reception, not sure that he'd heard correctly, "Are you sure?"

He was standing on top of the underground T.H.R.U.S.H. base that had just been smoked out using military aid from the nearby U.S. Military base in a plain, unnamed piece of land in Minnesota.

"Sure as hell, sir!" replied Major O'Neill, a steady-minded, loyal soldier who had led the break-in team. The base had been particularly hard to spot, being made of wood and plastic and having very little magnetic attraction. "He was with a blonde girl who was trying to get him out of the base before we caught them. Corp Collins shot her, and the boy made off like lightning. We tried to go after him, but sir, it was like Coyote trying to keep up with the Roadrunner. Nigh impossible. Not to mention some of the tunnel caved in as we were going along."

Napoleon Solo exchanged glances with his friend and partner, a Russian spy who, while not being much in the way of height, was as good if not a better special agent than Solo himself. "What do you think, Illya?"

Agent Kuryakin looked up from the radio back to Napoleon, frowning for a moment before answering, "I think we should find the boy. He could have information on T.H.R.U.S.H.'s movements that we need to know."

"A boy?" Solo asked disapprovingly.

Illya rolled his eyes in disdain for Napoleon's moral fiber. "Youth is not always innocence, Napoleon," he told his American friend sternly, "Haven't you ever heard of child suicide bombers?"

Totally to be continued!


	2. Act II: The Four W's and an H

Napoleon and Illya checked every room down the East tunnel carefully, ducking under fallen wooden planks and stepping over toppled file boxes and avoiding twisted shards of hard plastic on their way. Solo was about to suggest coming back later when Illya entered a dark, musty-smelling office. The power must have been cut off during the cave-in.

As Kuryakin clicked on his flashlight and began to move it from side to side in searching, sweeping motions, Napoleon followed suit, almost hitting his head on a collapsed beam in front of the doorway.

Suddenly, Illya, whose eyes and ears were fine-tuned to catch even the smallest movement or sound, lashed out underneath a desk and pulled a small, terrified boy of about ten or eleven. He must have been hiding under there for hours, Napoleon realized, coming around to join them.

At the sight of not only one, but two U.N.C.L.E. agents, the boy started to struggle twice as hard as he had been before, to the point where it was almost a chore for Illya to hold him still.

"It's okay," Napoleon reassured him, "We're not going to hurt you, kid."

The boy hesitated a bit at the sound of Napoleon's voice, but his eyes were uncomprehending, shocking blue irises looking from him to Kuryakin. Then he resumed his struggling, begging in Russian for them to let him go, please, he hadn't done anything wrong, and please don't kill him, not like Angelique, she hadn't done anything wrong either…!

"Who are you?" Illya asked him in both individuals' native language, "What are you doing here?"

"Please, let me go!" the boy repeated.

"Relax," Illya ordered him, "No one's going to hurt you. I…I promise," he relented, "Now, who are you?"

The boy paused, searching the older man's face for any hint of falsehood, and found none.

"I-illya," he answered his captor quietly. Kuryakin looked a bit surprised, but not by much. 'Illya', after all, was a common enough name in the U.S.S.R. However, with all the other similarities – The blond hair, blue eyes, squarish facial build – this latest bit of trivia was more than just a bit disturbing.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, still in the dark. The only language that Napoleon could speak fluently was English. Illya told him shortly was going on, and this time it was Napoleon who raised the eyebrow.

"Isn't that a bit of a coincidence?" he asked his Russian friend.

"I don't believe in coincidences," Illya shot back firmly, then turned back to the little boy whose name was also Illya. Despite both agents' reassurances, the boy was still as frightened and trembling as a rabbit cornered by dogs.

"You're coming back to headquarters with us," he told his little charge, "It's going to be okay."

"What are you going to do to me?" The younger Illya asked curiously.

"We're going to ask you questions," Kuryakin answered him dryly.

"What sort of questions?"

"Oh, you know, all of those horrible torturous questions about your name, rank, and serial number," the older Russian replied sarcastically.

"What!?" Little Illya asked in alarm, shrinking back so quickly he collided with Napoleon, who was bringing up the rear as they left the T.H.R.U.S.H. base.

"I'm kidding," said the older Illya, fighting back a slight smile at the boy's reaction.

"Oh," said the little boy, falling behind Kuryakin as they made their way back through the rubble and fallen obstacles.

"What did you tell him?" Napoleon asked suspiciously, who had been unable to understand the conversation between the two Russians.

"I told him you were an expert torturer and interrogator," Illya lied with a mischievous

smirk, not looking back to see Napoleon's mock-insulted expression.

* * *

By the time the three had reached New York, little Illya, or Junior, as Napoleon had taken to call him, had not said more than thirteen words – "I will not tell you anything," and "Why are you keeping me with you?" – All in Russian. However, there was a constant argument between Kuryakin and Solo as to whether it had actually been fourteen or not. 'Anything' could also be 'Any thing', Kuryakin insisted.

Regardless, the little boy hadn't said anything else. So when Kuryakin and Solo reached the tailor shop and took the boy into the base, the Russian spy had been insistent that they make sure the boy was unconscious, because being silent clearly showed grown-up intelligence.

"But Waverly's never quiet once he gets started and he's grown up," Solo protested.

"Silence, Napoleon," Illya ordered him, and they drugged the boy. Out of vengeance, Solo made Illya carry their young prisoner.

Little Illya woke up in a comfortable room, lying on a sofa alone. He looked about carefully as he sat up, blue eyes wary as a stray cat. Pacing around the room, Illya searched for the bugs he knew had to be there. He had had dreams of that kind of thing, and THRUSH often bugged their prison cells. The only confusion was that this was certainly not a prison cell. It looked more like a private apartment, which puzzled him. Surely UNCLE wouldn't think him to be trusted!

Looking at a mirror on the wall carefully, Illya frowned slightly, remembering a move he'd seen in which people had spied on someone through a one-sided mirror. Taking a blanket off of the sofa, Illya stuck his tongue out at the mirror before throwing the blanket over the mirror, obstructing the view of whoever was watching him.

On the other side of the mirror, a young woman snickered at the boy's intelligence and cheek. The tall brunette looked over at the Russian standing next to her with shining green eyes.

"He's sharp."

"Yes, he is," Illya responded softly, as though he were preoccupied with something.

"Alright, Kuryakin, get to the dot –"

"Point –"

"Point," Agent Harim corrected herself, "Get to the point. What bothers you so much about this boy?"

"He's…" Illya searched for a good explanation, but couldn't find one, "I suppose he's just…too much like me."

"Have you ever stuck your tongue out at a brunette, Mr. Kuryakin?" Harim challenged him.

"He stuck it out at me, not you," he corrected her.

"Have you ever stuck your tongue out at yourself?" Harim adjusted her question smoothly.

Illya smiled a bit at the insinuation. "Once or twice there have been times when I'd have liked to."

After a few moments, Devorah Harim gave her friend a sly smirk. "Aw, you were so cute back then. What happened?"

Illya shot her a betrayed look. "I'm fine!" he insisted.

"Sure," Devorah nodded contemplatively, "And staring at 'yourself'," she used air quotes, "through a one-sided mirror under a tailor shop is _fine?_"

"From a certain point of view," Illya replied carefully.

Devorah made a spiteful noise. "I am convinced," she told him, clearly meaning the exact opposite, "So, dinner?"

Illya looked at the Israeli woman and shrugged, "If you want."

"Where?"

"You pick."

"Hm," Devorah thought for a moment, "There is a nice falafel bar just inside of Brooklyn. That sounds like a good place. When?"

Illya thought for a moment, then answered, "I'm free from 7:30 on. Then would be a good time."

Devorah beamed, her bronze complexion almost shining. "It's a deal."

* * *

That evening, Devorah showed her Russian friend the way to a small, almost nonexistent falafel bar just outside of the Brooklyn Jewish community. After dinner, they went outside to get out of the crowd that came pouring for after-musaf snacks.

"The boy is still on your mind, Illya," the Israeli noticed, "I told you to relax. There cannot be two of anyone. We each are as unrepeatable as … as handmade art."

"Are you so sure?" Illya challenged doubtfully, "Cloning has been practiced before. Are you certain that THRUSH hasn't mastered it?"

Harim frowned slightly. "Why would they clone you?" she asked suspiciously, "they would gain nothing from your appearance. The last time they tried to plant an identical into the U.N.C.L.E., you saw for yourself that the replacement wasn't perfectly infallible. And besides, why raise a child to be just like you? Why not use facial reconstruction like that other time? Unless they put your clone in the exact same environment and circumstances as you were put in as a child, then raising a clone would prove to be a completely useless waste of their time."

"Would it be?"

Devorah started to answer, then just glared at her fellow agent.

"Stop asking me questions just because you're too lazy to think of anything better to say," she ordered him sternly, then turned back to answering his question.

"It's possible that you were cloned out of complete randomness," Devorah suggested thoughtfully, "Perhaps they are practicing genetic engineering and you were the only one around – perhaps you were compromised ten, eleven years ago?"

Illya thought hard for a moment, and nodded.

"That's when they started the project," he realized, "It's the only logical explanation."

"Well," said Devorah with a prim, confident smile, "It may have been nothing personal after all." That said, the beautiful Israeli took a sip of her coffee and stood silently beside Illya to watch the sun set over the Brooklyn skyline. Then they caught a bus back to New York City, where they split up, Harim going to her small apartment to catch some sleep before sunrise, and Kuryakin back into Del Floria's Tailor Shop to check up on 'Junior'.

So totally to be continued.


	3. Act III: Memories

Illya was tossing and turning, unable to get to sleep since his capture. The little boy kept having nightmares too – and he was on the receiving end of all of them.

This nightmare was particularly nasty. He was in what looked like a medieval underground dungeon, and someone was bringing a glowing hot poker closer and closer to his neck, until it started to burn terribly just from the close proximity…

The boy woke up with a small shriek, sitting up on the sofa he had been asleep on, blue eyes trying to see in the dark room, straw-colored hair dangling into his face and obscuring his vision. What was wrong with him? Was U.N.C.L.E. putting these nightmares in his head to tear at is already shot nerves and probably drive him mad?

No, no, that didn't make any sense. He had a feeling that everyone had lied to him, and this feeling had grown stronger ever since he'd see how the T.H.R.U.S.H. personnel had run about like chickens with their heads cut off in their fear of U.N.C.L.E., who, coincidentally, had never done anything to hurt him, even when he had been completely compromised. What was wrong with this world? Why couldn't he trust anybody?!

Illya, still exhausted, got up from his resting place and began to walk about like an amnesiac, not wanting to go back to sleep, back to that horrible place he'd seen.

Suddenly, he tripped over something and fell, letting out a yelp of alarm as he plummeted to the floor in the pitch dark, smacking his head against the end-table and falling into even blacker blackness than what he'd already been moving around in.

The nightmares were even worse this time, much more vivid now that he wasn't just sleeping. In all of his dreams he was the man who had grabbed him out from under the desk, the one who spoke his language and had his name.

All the blood, the pain, the fear, the losses, the triumphs, the fighting…

Then Illya began to hear voices from outside of his dreams.

"He fell in the dark."

"In the dark? Why was it dark?"

"He was asleep."

"Sleepwalking?"

"No, he was awake."

"You said he was asleep."

"He was when we turned out the lights."

Illya couldn't help but crack a smile. He could understand a little bit of English from listening to the staff around Base One, though he was better in Russian.

"He's awake."

"No, he's not."

"Yes he is."

"So let's just check, shall we? Junior, you awake?"

"Cut that out! Let me prove it to you. Illya, are you awake?"

Illya stayed still, as one dead.

"Illya, you're not fooling anyone," the voice said in Russian. Illya's mouth twitched again, and the little boy opened his eyes grudgingly.

"I know," he said.

Kuryakin looked at the boy's face contemplatively. Solo was the other person that Kuryakin had been arguing with.

"How do you feel?" the Russian asked him.

Illya did a quick self-diagnostic. "My head hurts."

"You took quite a fall, Junior," Solo commented sympathetically, "Came out with a concussion."

"_Slight_ concussion," Kuryakin elaborated, "Would you please answer a few questions?"

Solo threw his friend a resentful look, but Illya nodded compliantly.

"I will do anything I can to help you," he told his twin in Russian, "I think…I think I'm you. I have dreams, weird dreams, like nightmares, only some of them aren't nightmares. And in all of them, I'm either me, you, or someone in-between."

"Memories," Kuryakin assumed. It wasn't a question. He must have suspected it all along. "Do you know why you were cloned?"

"No," Illya replied, sitting up slowly, "But I do remember hearing Angelique and Director Chekov talking about a 'project', and an 'original'. I interrupted several of their conversations, but I can't remember all of them."

Kuryakin looked over at Solo indicatively. There were two ways that they could help Illya remember everything – either sheer willpower or hypnosis.

Director Alexander Waverly, a long-faced, elderly man, and Napoleon Solo watched as Illya Kuryakin helped the hypnotist by translating what the little boy saw in his motionless delusions.

"He says, 'They are speaking of the project in English.' He am having trouble understanding them."

"Just quote to use the words, and we will understand you, Illya," said the hypnotist, an Indian psychologist named Al-rham Bashir. Illya did just that.

"'If they find out about Illya, it will only be a matter of time before the discover the rest of the project.'

"'They won't. Don't worry.'

"'How can you be so sure? They might capture Illya, and then….'

"'Then what, Agent LeVoux?'

"'They may destroy him, and then they will discover the other clones and destroy them too. Then all of our work will have been for nothing.'"

All of the adults exchanged worried glances. They had find to find out where this second project base was, and fast, or else they might find themselves being infiltrated by clones of their own personnel.

So totally to be continued!


	4. Act IV: To Be Remembered

"Now we know that there isn't just the one clone," Napoleon commented later, "But how many are there?"

Illya frowned slightly in thought. "We need to find the base where they're raising the rest of them."

"But suppose they're all separated?" Napoleon continued to hypothesize, "We may never know how many there are."

Illya Kuryakin looked up at Solo and Mr. Waverly, a look of dread on his Caucasian face.

"That would be just great," he commented dryly, trying to hide his all-together brief display of emotion, "There could be thousands of Napoleons. And to think I once thought that one was enough."

"Hey!" Napoleon Solo – the real one – protested, backhanding Illya on the forearm, "That's not so nice!"

Mr. Waverly merely looked upon them with a stern, all be it benevolent expression.

"In that case, Mr. Kuryakin, I want you and Mr. Solo to do everything you can to find these bases and eliminate them. The last thing we need is for THRUSH to have access to the memories of any, much less all of the agents that work for UNCLE."

"What's your plan, sir?" Napoleon asked, hoping that he wouldn't have to come up with some 'diabolical scheme' once again, but also hoping that Waverly wouldn't come up with an idea that would put both himself and Illya on the "Most Expendable" list.

Bang.

"I believe that should be up to the one running the mission," Waverly allowed generously – it was rare that he ever let Napoleon and Illya loose in the world of Cloak-and-Dagger -"Namely you, Mr. Solo. Do whatever you think is necessary. I'm going to go check on the boy."

"Tell Junior I said hi," Napoleon called after the aged director as he walked away down the corridor. Then he turned to Illya, and said the most predictable line in the book.

"Any ideas?"

* * *

Meanwhile, young Illya walked down the corridors, mulling over what he'd just done by joining forces with his greatest fear, the U.N.C.L.E. Doubtless the THRUSH people would be mad at him for doing so, and probably want to kill him for it. Well, let them come. There were two of him now, and nothing could stand against him – both hims.

Suddenly, Illya's head began to ring madly, flooding with faces, voices, feelings, places…oh, God, would it never end? In the distance, Illya thought he could hear someone screaming…was that him!?

The floor came rushing up to his face, and he lost all control of his nervous system, falling like a rag doll as merciful blackness enveloped him at last.

* * *

When Kuryakin came running into the infirmary, he was afraid from the look of Dr. Bashir that he was too late.

"What happened?" he demanded as Napoleon came running up behind him.

"I don't know," Bashir replied with a worried expression on his brown face, "One minute he was fine, the next minute he's having something like an epileptic seizure. One thing's for sure though – he's going down, and fast."

Kuryakin pushed past Bashir to stand beside 'Junior''s bed. The smaller version of himself was pale, blue eyes rolled back into his head, his form still twitching spasmodically.

The older Kuryakin didn't know what to do. He hesitated, then placed a hand on the boy's shoulder to stop the twitching.

Suddenly the child's eyes took focus on his double's face.

"Kuryakin…" he said in perfect, though accented English for the first time ever, "I remembered. I'm completely you now."

Kuryakin slowly began to realize what was going on.

"Yes," the boy confirmed Illya's suspicions, "My mind can't handle all of our memories at once. I'm going to … I don't know. I might merely die, or…" the boy shuddered, about to admit the nigh possibility of one of both Russians' greatest fears, "Or I might lose my mind. Or simply forget it."

The adult shook his head slightly. "No," he insisted, "I know me, you can handle this. Just don't give up."

"Illya," the child said with a slight, very Kuryakin-ish smile, "Our one failing is that we believe too much in ourselves. Not as much as Napoleon, granted, but we still tend to get cocky sometimes."

Illya knew it was true.

"I'm going to go out like a light, either way," the boy told him, "I'm sorry, but you can't change the facts…"

The knowing light in the little boy's eyes then began to grow dimmer, and the boy said, as a parting sentence:

"I'll miss me."

* * *

About a week later, Illya Kuryakin sat alone in his apartment, considering the books on his shelf, and uncertain which would take his mind off of the boy who could have been just like him.

He didn't like to think about it. In a way, he'd seen himself die, seen himself become too weak to hold onto what made him who he was, and as a consequence fade out of existence altogether. What if such a thing happened to him…? Could it happen? No, _would_ it happen?

A slight rap on his door alerted him to the presence of a guest waiting to be granted entrance to his small little haven. Getting up from the bed where he'd been sitting, Illya moved toward the door and opened it to see a critical-faced young Israeli.

"Divi…" Illya recognized her, rubbing a hand over his eyes wearily. He had barely gotten any sleep at all during the past week, and he was certainly not in any disposition to entertain guests.

Instead, Devorah Harim merely raised one dark eyebrow and suggested, "Bad day?"

"Yes," Illya answered miserably, "Yes, it is."

"Well, then," said Divi, "Perhaps I could come in? It is chilly out here, and I don't think Mr. Waverly would appreciate one of his top multilingual agents being frozen have to death and having to report in for work the next day as an icicle."

Illya couldn't help but laugh softly at the image she was presenting, as gloomy and depressed as he was. He stood aside and invited the young woman inside. Devorah stepped inside the dim little domicile and took a seat on a chair by the table in the adjoining kitchen.

"You have to stop letting Nickovetch's disposition bother you, Illya," she told the Russian, "The boy is happy, and you should simply relax."

"No, no, no…" Illya replied with a moan, "I'm tired, but I can't get any sleep. I'm hungry, but I don't want to eat. I'm bored, but I don't want to do anything. I'm a wreck now, and I can't get my mind off of seeing poor Illya lose his mind because he was me."

Divi Harim looked incredulous. "Surely you don't think this is all your fault?"

"No! God, no," Illya replied, coming to sit beside her, "I just can't help but think that Illya faced something that I fear more than anything else in the whole world. I watched it beat him. Now I can't help but think about how the same thing could happen to me."

The sudden slamming of Divi's fist on the small wooden table jolted Illya to the core. If he hadn't been fully awake earlier, he certainly was awake now.

"You fool!" Divi snapped, "You have work to do! You have a world to save, a plot to stop, a scheme to foil, and here you are, moaning over some week-old-memory! Crack out of it -!"

"_Snap _out of –"

"Don't interrupt me!" Divi barked, "You're such a good man, with such strength of character normally! Yet look at you now!"

Illya knew that she was right. He was being an idiot. The Russian sat up a bit straighter, trying to force himself out of his depression.

"Have you seen Illya?" he asked curiously, to calm her down.

It worked. "Yes," Divi replied, subdued for the moment, "I have. He was calmly putting together a 100 piece puzzle when I left the institute. He's still got the brains, just nothing to fill them with. In time, perhaps he could come and work for us.

"In the meantime," Divi changed the subject on him, "I believe you have a mission to accomplish. Something about searching out other cloning facilities…?"

Ilya smiled and stood, ashamed of himself a bit, but determined to prove that it had never happened. "I'll get prepared immediately."

OMG, did you like how it ended? CLIFFHANGER!!!!!!!!


End file.
